a teaspoon of heaven, a tablespoon of hell
by glossier
Summary: Lucas deals with sexual frustration…the hard way. Pun intended. — Lucas/Maya


**_a/n:** wasn't sure if i was supposed to make this M. i know when the second half is up it'll most likely forsure be changed

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 **a teaspoon of heaven, a tablespoon of hell**  
/ Lucas deals with sexual frustration…the hard way. Pun intended.

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It's Maya's fault.

(But not really, not at all.)

She just had to come to their monthly Friday night game session that one October in one of the shortest, flimsiest skirts he'd ever seen. She's become fond of skirts, he realizes. And he loves it. And he wouldn't be at all honest if he claimed that he hadn't pretty much memorized every article of clothing she owns. (Wrong—every article of clothing he's had the pleasure of having been exposed to…along with the rest of the world.)

Except it changes that night, everything, because monumentally, that is the first time he has ever been flashed by Maya Hart.

Everything falls to the fires of hell shortly after. His mind blurs in fantasies his mother would whip him for, his jaw hits the gutter, and fuck, he doesn't even want to think about what his dick had been up to, but goddamn it better actually _stay the hell_ put and literally _anywhere_ but up, or he's done for.

She had done it on purpose.

Back then, he hadn't been so sure.

But he is certain now. Why?

Because she continues this sinister game of torture and tease afterward. And the game goes on for months, involving "accidental" flashes, crescent shaped smiles, twinkling eyes usually followed by winks, and _constant_ body language.

(That usually revolved around the power her forefinger had against any part of his body that it came in contact with, whether she'd tapped his nose playfully, slid it across the blades of his shoulder to get his attention, ran it across his chest when she complimented his flannel preference, or held it beneath his chin to keep their eyes locked during one of their banters.)

Every month for the last three years of high school, he, Maya, Riley, and Farkle had participated in a Friday night game session. It's all because Riley'd been aware of all the high school clichés and cliques and the horrific charade of making new friends hence planting separation anxiety in that innocent head of hers. So she'd made them agree to do this, this pact. Lucas hadn't worried, to be completely honest. He had a good feeling about their group of friends. What's funny is that they never actually _did_ break away into the temptations of various coteries. Maya says being surrounded by street-smart artists like herself is incredibly dull and not to mention completely unoriginal. Lucas thinks the exact words she used to describe joining groups of people similar to her had been "too mainstream", but he's not sure. Ironically, Riley had been the one to have made the most "outside" friends—which had been predictable due to her bubbly, outspoken personality. She never strayed, though. Neither did Farkle.

And Lucas?

He loved them all. He really did. They'd always been the only people that truly accepted him for who he was, who he is, who he strives to become. It's rare to find those kinds of treasures.

(Also, having a crush on the charming, gifted, beautiful girl he's come to know since a subway ride in middle school, probably, definitely contributed to his need to never leave this crowd. And he'd always secretly hoped she would never be the one to walk to another lunch table or ditch them to reek havoc with other equally rebellious, angsty teenagers, either. She never did. Not even once.)

Anyways, a lot of the times they go to some local arcade, Maya prefers Dave n' Busters because she knows a guy that knows a guy that likes her enough to serve all of them unlimited beers, which is beyond chill. That October Friday, though, they'd gone bowling at this neon-slash-retro place Farkle had found through the web that he knew the girls would adore. That very night marked _the_ change of this childhood crush.

Because suddenly, he is exposed to black lace undergarments below a thin skirt that flies up for a second when she uses a technique her mother had taught her to score a strike (and damn Katy Hart for teaching her that trick, for having all these random stupid knick-knack talents that she could bestow upon her daughter with pride). And the amusing thing is, the technique actually _works_ , as stupid as it had been, since it involved twirling twice and practically throwing the fucking twelve-pound sphere while in a haze of neon lights and doubled pins. But the strike means jackshit to him because he'd just seen her ass and nothing even matters anymore.

Because a sweet, childhood crush changes in an instant and this is the start of his awakening, and yes, he admits, it is probably the oldest story in the book, where the person suddenly achieves this epiphany where they realizes that yup, this is the person they want to marry, this is the one, the soulmate, true love.

Except it's not.

Please, what do you expect? He's seventeen. None of that grownup, committal, labelled factors matter. Not yet. (But he knows that _one_ day he will associate them with Maya Hart. He's sure of it. But now? Nope.)

That night, his innocent, simple flirtationship crush on the girl he's known since he'd been prepubescent and clueless, becomes faltered with lust. The attraction intensifies enormously and uncontrollably and well, fuck it all, it has become something wondrous and dangerous and phenomenal. It has become sexual.

He's known her for years, months, days, seconds and he decides that he will _never_ become used to bundle of vivacity that explodes in his ribcage (and ignites an immense, naive, and downright embarrassingly uncontrollable wave of heat to his groin) whenever she's around… doing something debatably—what's the word—ah yes, _hot_.

Well, he means, he has more control than that. (He likes to think.)

…But she just happens to waltz around his world so teasingly.

(Menacingly, manipulatively, _evilly_ —oh boy, does this girl know how to get anything she wants with a curl of her finger.)

Goddamn, she's so good at this, too. It's as if she had been a siren or succubus in a past life because he's a sucker and he's drowning, too far deep into the abyss of the ocean she's swarmed up. Breathing is no longer an option.

He supposes walking her home from the bowling alley had officially initiated this suicidal game, allowing him to further realize that he'd been signing a scroll of the devil—since his entire being becomes her's as soon as she playfully exhales words that damn him to the locked chamber of sexual frustration for the following days, weeks, months.

"I saw you looking at my ass," and she is smiling so smugly, confidently, annoyingly, that not only is he caught off guard, but he becomes defensive as hell.

"W-what?" he collects himself. "Don't be so full of yourself. I just noticed your new skirt."

She clicks her tongue against the roof of her mouth, like she always does when she's unamused or bored. "Mhhmm. Y'know, I always thought you were a gentleman kinda cowboy, too."

"I _am_ a gentleman!" he argues a little too quickly. She catches it. It's not as if he'd _wanted_ to see cheeks and black lace… Okay? He would never try anything on her, either.

She snickers and it's admittedly one of the cutest things. "For the _most_ part, yeah." She doesn't give him time to try and clarify that statement, scrambling up the front steps of her apartment, keys jingling on the lanyard she's barely grasping. "So how do you like it?"

"How do I like… _what_ , exactly?" Because he's known her long enough to be cautious of her trickster questions.

"My skirt, idiot," she laughs, her smile making it to her eyes. Moments like these where she's smiling so wide due to something he's said or done remind him of why he's always liked her. The moment diminishes and turns to dangerous territory not even a second later, when she pivots the front of her body to face the door to unlock the knob at her hands. And then the set of keys hit the floor and he dies for the second time that night because she bends over at the waist to snatch them up and therefore giving him another rated R, high quality view of a little bit _more_ than just her ass.

And. It's. All. Fucking. Over.

She acts as if she doesn't know what she'd done, (when she and he both know she's very aware of her doings) saying a quick good-night before disappearing through the door, leaving him tomato-faced with an uncomfortable bulge at the center of his pants. He groans, frustrated and annoyed and _frustrated_ (because shit, it's never been _this_ bad, really—and he knows it's only going to get worse from this point on), jamming fisted knuckles into the lowest end of the pockets of his jeans in an attempt to make a more suitable space for his too excited parts.

During his walk home, he decides to damn all skirts, especially all the skirts that Maya Hart owns since she makes it seem as if it's some sort of priority to ridicule him with flaunting what he can't have. Damn her skirts and damn the tight white asses in them to an eternity in Lucifer's flaming pits of the underground. Nothing good can come from ogling perfect, round, squeezable glutes encased in lace fabric.

(But Lucas learns this the hard way.)

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Maya goes big or goes home.

She's known for awhile now that this sexual desire had been reciprocated. She had needs, too, for shit's sake. So she's going to do what she can. She's going to have fun. So when she's wearing cropped tops around him, somehow, she always feels the need to stretch her limbs, arms high up above her head all cavalier and brimming of elegance. When she's wearing something that are basically an ode to legs, she doesn't hesitate to drop a few items once in awhile. And when he seems undoubtedly flustered, she touches him—the most she can without actually _doing_ anything. Simple strokes. Taps. Flicks. Some leaning into him here or there.

And catching Lucas staring at her legs is definitely beyond flattering, and when she actually does catch his gaze drifting upward (and she'll admit, he does it when _no one else_ is paying attention, the sneaky "gentleman" this guy is), she is tied between wanting to call him out on it and continuing to play with his attention more. She always ends up choosing the latter option because the first will pretty much, ultimately end in awkwardness on his part and if she plays her cards right, sometimes she gets him playing right back.

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The moment Maya buys a popsicle at an ice cream stand in some amusement park Riley had decided they all go to in one of the following months nearing summer, Lucas knows it's on. It had seemed like a genuine want for the red, white, and blue sucker in the beginning, but the more he thought of it, the more he was positive of her conniving intentions. Never, in the times where they had gotten a cold dessert at their local ice cream parlor or frozen sweetness stand or ventured in the fucking grocery store, had Maya Hart spent her money on a popsicle. Her favorite, her always, her usual had always been two scoops of chocolate in a waffle cone. If there hadn't been any cones available, then she would change her order entirely to a scoop of strawberry in a cup.

He _knew_ this. He always had.

"Didn't know you liked those," Lucas points to the long, narrow frozen pop glistening in her firm hands. It's just an observation.

She sighs and the sound is unexpected and femininely elongated. Sly girl. "Been craving something that could refresh the entire insides of mouth." It's just the truth.

Touché.

While Riley and Farkle order their fruity preferences, he asks, voice darker, a tad quieter, "So… wanna go for a fast ride? Or take it slow? Either or would definitely be more than satisfying."

"...I like it fast. It's much more thrilling, don't you think?"

Maya smirks, eyes on him yet a finger pointing at the largest, fastest roller coaster in the park. He tries not to notice the way her tongue slips over one side of the melting ice, colouring it vibrant blue until she swirls her way upward, slow and wet, where she closes her mouth over the tip to paint her lips red. And right, he tries to ignore the slight slurping sound she makes with it.

He thinks of horses giving birth, his grandmother, cattle, TexasTexas _Texas_.

(Anything but Maya fucking Hart. And fucking Maya Hart.)

"I _love_ it wet, though," she continues, leading the way, making it so that he's incapable of seeing her grin. He thinks it's better that way. "I wanna get _soaked_."

"River rafting, it is!" Farkle obliviously directs, suddenly taking charge.

Maya continues to plunge the pop in and out of her tight little mouth and Lucas internally curses everything.

(—Too late.)

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 **tbc. (1/2)**

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 **_a/n:** when this was rushed as hell because I wanted to whip out something before going to Europe ! sorry!


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